Thing Bailiwick Read online

  Childbirth. It’s an amazing thing. A new life coming into the world. A magical moment. I felt it, even then, despite the horror surrounding me. Sitting on the floor with the toilet as my backrest, I cradled Caleb to my chest and wept. I had just set eyes on him for the very first time, yet I loved him more than life itself and was willing to die for him. He was crying too. It was a good sound. He cried like his brothers had, not a piercing shrill. A soft bleating, like a little lamb.

  I cut the cord that connected us, severed it with scissors, but we were still connected. And it was powerful. Mom reached out weakly and I took her hand. She’d stopped shivering, but her chest was hitching with every breath and her whole face had a blue tint. There were tears glistening on her cheeks. We were three crying connected souls. It was beauty in the midst of bedlam.

  A tidal wave of emotions swept over me, and then it was gone, leaving me exhausted and feeling as if I was bobbing on an endless sea with no land in sight. I barely had the strength to bundle Caleb in a towel. I refused to look to the door. I knew it would be there, that filthy yellow orb violating my first precious moments with my newborn son. The room was spinning and thoughts were spinning in my head, a whirl of jumbled nonsense. I was rocking. I was rocking my baby. And I was humming a lullaby. It was the same I had sung for Donny and then for Ty.

  It hit me then, a slap to the face that brought me back to my senses. I snatched up the phone and looked at the time, and a frightened whimper squeaked out. It was two thirty-eight! Donny had basketball practice. But Ty would be walking in the front door any minute.

  I screamed when the phone rang in my hand.

  D went into a frenzy. I think it was the phone that set her off. Either that or me screaming. She rammed the hole in the door, and splintering sounded as it opened up. My screams escalated as her whole head popped through.

  I answered the phone. I didn’t wait to hear who was on the other end. I remember screaming for help. My eyes were riveted on D. Her bloody teeth were bared and her eye was weeping puss and she was struggling to push her way in.

  I remember putting Caleb in Mom’s lap. My mangled legs were like rubber. I had to crawl with the scissors in my hand. I was going to extinguish that nasty yellow orb for good.

  I missed with the first few jabs. I was weak, on the verge of collapse. D almost got me. I felt her teeth graze my fingers. On about strike six or seven, I found my mark, and the scissors sank deep. Yellow puss squirted, and D pulled out.

  I gave a shriek of triumph and called her a “fucking blind bitch”. I remember that clear as day, and then I turned to Mom with what I’m sure was a maniacal grin on my face. Her eyes were closed, her head slumped to one side.

  “No. No. Not in the bathtub!” I was blubbering as I crawled to her. I screamed at her. I shook her hand. I even smacked her in the face. Then I sat on the floor and cried. Caleb was bleating. It sounded far away. And I could hear a voice, small and tinny, one coming from the back of a long dark tunnel. I stopped in mid-sob and snatched up the phone from the floor, putting it to my ear.

  At first I couldn’t understand her. The signal was weak and her voice was weaker and fading in and out.

  “Elma!” I screamed at her that D had attacked me, that Mom was dead, that I needed help.

  And then I listened.

  And then I heard.

  Four words.

  She repeated the four words, stressing every one, and then she was gone.

  The room began to spin. It took my breath away. I was in a whirlpool, round and round. The sea was trying to swallow me, trying to drag me under. The sound of whooshing, whirling water was deafening. It bounced around the bathroom walls. It bounced around in my head. The phone clattered to the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands to my ears.

  I came awake gasping for air. It took me a minute to realize I’d passed out. I looked to the door. She was gone. The fucking blind bitch was gone! I snatched up the phone and looked at the time. It was two forty-six.

  ~~~~

  My legs could barely support me at first. Seated on the toilet, I slid my sweats back on and stuffed a few towels in the legs. I wrapped towels around my arms and secured them with hair scrunchies and gauze. I took one last look at my mom, at her bloodless face, her blue lips. I took one last look at Caleb in her lap, swaddled in a towel. He wasn’t bleating. His eyes were half-mast. He was falling asleep. He had Mom’s fair hair.

  I jammed several vomit-soaked towels in the hole in the door. I wedged them in good and tight. Then I picked up the scissors.

  ~~~~

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified when I cracked the door. Like a prowler in the dead of night, I popped my head out, looking left and right, then slipped out quickly and shut it quietly behind me. The hand holding the scissors in front of me was shaking so violently I was afraid it might drop them. I put my back to the door so I could see in both directions, the boys’ rooms to the left, the living-room to the right. The hall was littered with debris—shredded towels and toilet paper everywhere, the shower curtain in a mangled heap, ripped pillows and bedding from the boys’ rooms, one black matted tail. I could see debris out in the living-room as well—a lacerated lampshade, a mutilated couch cushion, laundry scattered about, a tipped and ripped vacuum cleaner.

  I couldn’t bring myself to move. I didn’t want to leave Caleb. My ears were on high alert. With the electricity off, it was deathly quiet. That’s the only reason I heard Ty stomping his feet on the mat out front.

  I meant to run. I really did. Instead I lurched on leaden legs. My muscles were frozen in place. My knees were locked. I almost went down. Only the wall held me up. When I hit the living-room, the front door was opening, and D was there, waiting to greet him.

  I caught a glimpse of blond hair. I screamed at Ty. I was screaming as loud as I could, but I guess the muscles in my neck were frozen too. All that came out was a thin squeal. The door was swinging shut when she pounced.

  Ty doesn’t only have Mom’s hair. He has her slim build. D’s weight took him right to the floor. And the fucking blind bitch went right for his throat.

  ~~~~

  His winter jacket saved his life that day. I truly believe that. It was cold out. Ty hates the cold. He had his jacket zipped to his chin. Fluffs of down went flying as she ripped the collar off.

  With a lunge and a growl, I drove the scissors into her side, clear up to the finger holds, and she whirled on me and latched onto my arm as I went stumbling backwards. But all she got was a mouthful of towel. My hastily devised towel barrier was short-lived, however. She snatched it off as I hit the ground, then shook it furiously.

  I screamed at Ty, the same word over and over. He lie stunned for a few seconds, before it registered. Then he scrambled to his feet and ran for the back door.

  She charged at me and I threw up my other towel barrier, but it wasn’t thick enough. I felt teeth sink into flesh. I let out a howl. That’s when she went for my throat.

  We grappled, rolling around on the floor, bumping into things. The coffee table overturned, the lacerated lampshade crumpled beneath me. She had me by the throat. I had her by the throat.

  She won out in the end. I was just too weak. She got me on my back and gave one final powerful shake. I’m not sure if she ever knew it was only a towel she ripped away. She gave it a few vicious snarling shakes, and then she was gone.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt my throat, and my hand came away bloody. I rolled to my belly and pushed up to hands and knees. I heard her at the bathroom door, snarling as she fought to pull out the towels. I heard wood splinter.

  ~~~~

  I crawled. That’s all I had left. I crawled down a hall that seemed a mile long. When finally I reached her, she was halfway through the door, her back legs pumping furiously as she tried to pull through the rest of the way. It was the scissors. That’s all that was keeping her from going through.

  Bracing my feet on the door, I grabbed hold of her legs and leaned
all my weight backward, straining with everything left inside of me. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t cry. It took every ounce of my strength just to hold tight as her legs pumped like powerful pistons. With her tail gone, it was obvious her mouth wasn’t the only body orifice worms were exiting. They were dangling inches from my face. I closed my eyes and held on for dear life. But the bitch was strong. The fucking blind bitch was inching her way in.

  “Mom?” His voice sounded a million miles away. When I opened my eyes, Ty was by my side. His eyes were wide and frightened. He held the ax.

  I was panting, struggling to hold on. I knew the four words, but I couldn’t find my voice. I could hear the bitch on the other side, snarling and snapping, could hear her front nails digging into the door as she tried to pull herself through. And I could hear the tiny lamb in the bathtub. It was bleating softly.

  “Cut off her head!”

  It looked like he didn’t understand at first. Then his eyes popped wider still. Then they narrowed. His chin jutted as he set his jaw. He hefted the ax, feeling its weight. Then he switched it to one hand and reached for the knob.

  Ty always did what he was told.

  ~~~~

  I held tight to the pumping legs, scooting backwards as the door opened, so I didn’t see the bitch. I saw Ty’s face, the look of horror when he got a glimpse of D. I knew what he was seeing. I see it every night in my nightmares, two eye sockets oozing pus, a snarling mouth with dangling worms and snapping teeth stained with blood.

  Ty was no stranger to ax wielding. He helped Don every year chop wood for the bonfires they loved so much. Still, it took three swings before the bitch stopped kicking. On the fourth swing, I heard her head fall.

  ~~~~

  The paramedics had to give Mom a tracheotomy right there on the spot. They said she was seconds away from dying. I’m so grateful she’s alive. Elma wasn’t so lucky. Ty saw the blood around the shed when he went for the ax. That’s where they found her, wedged in between the shed and the fence where she’d tried to escape from D. She had a crucifix gripped in one hand, and there was an unopened container of water lying nearby. I figure she must have come over while I was dropping the boys at school. The coroner’s report said she’d been dead for eight hours.

  All things considered, I guess I got off pretty easy. Five-hundred and fifty-two stitches. My legs got the worst of it, and my left arm has some nerve damage. I can’t grip anything, not tightly. I can grip pretty good with my right hand though. It’s gripping pretty tightly to the meat cleaver. A death grip.

  There’s a bluish glow of moonlight reflecting off the snow in my back yard. It’s so beautiful. It only makes this night seem more surreal. From my vantage point, high up on the deck, I can clearly see five tiny forms, dark against pale snow. They’re leaving tiny trails as they drag themselves along. They aren’t actually making any progress. Just squirming in circles, really. But…I’ve put it off long enough. Dawn is close, and Don is an early riser.

  ▪

  ▪

  A Murder

  (Things in Groups)

  He looked to a sky the color of slate.

  It was a shade closely matching the thin blanket cloaking his frail shoulders.

  As the cool breeze lifted his snow-white wisp of a beard, he breathed in deeply. He could smell ripe fall leaves and sweet pine needles, the musk of dried cattails from the pond, the clean scent of rain in the distance.

  With thin, fragile fingers, he tore a slice of bread to pieces and tossed them to the crows scattered about the bench. One tried to abscond with a large piece, but was quickly accosted by thirty more and a raucous squabble ensued as they pecked the piece to a hundred bits.

  He didn’t hear the group of young men coming up the trail until they were upon him. His ears were not what they used to be.

  Strutting up to the bench, they stopped before him. “Oh, what is this?” the one with the cowboy hat spoke. “You lost, Gandhi? There ain’t no temples here.” He had an accent. Spanish. And he had dark skin.

  The man on the bench gave a regal bow of his head before lifting his face to the four young men. “My temple is here,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. His accent was heavy. Indian. And his voice soft, barely above a whisper.

  “Oh, a holy man,” Cowboy mocked in a bad Indian imitation. He bowed to him, and the others followed suit, bobbing up and down. “So sorry, your holiness. Please forgive us, your holiness.”

  The old man broke off more of the bread, tossing it, and the crows pounced, fighting amongst themselves for the meager morsels. “I am not a holy man,” he informed them. “I was a teacher for many years in my country. Forty-two, to be exact.”

  “Mireles,” the cowboy said, “the teacher needs a student. Why don’t you take a seat.”

  “No problemo, amigo,” the young one said as he sat beside him. He was just a boy, fourteen, maybe fifteen. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore a black leather jacket and a gaudy gold chain. Pulling out a switchblade, he snapped it open. “Tell me, Teacher,” he said as he began to clean his nails, “do you know what they call a group of crows?”

  He tossed out the last of his bread and then dusted the crumbs from his hands as he eyed the three men still standing. They were older than the boy. The one wearing the cowboy hat was also wearing a silly grin. His teeth were gold. Another was wearing a dark jacket with the hood up and dark sunglasses, even though there was no sign of the sun. He was tall and very thin. The third was wearing a t-shirt with no sleeves, willing to suffer the cold to show off his tattooed muscle arms. His head was shaved and his cheek was scarred and his chest was thrust out proudly.

  Leaning back on the bench, the old man stroked his beard. “Do you know that a group of weasels is called a gang?”

  “Oooo!” the men still standing howled in unison, their eyebrows shooting high.

  “No way, José,” the boy seated beside him spoke calmly, a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “Did you just call us weasels? Do you think that’s wise, Teacher?”

  He folded his hands neatly in his lap. “A group of mice…is a mischief.”

  The three men yelped and thrust out their chests. “Mice? You calling us mice, Gandhi?”

  A cold draft drifted from the north, rustling the leaves on the ground and ruffling the wings of the crows. The boy stopped cleaning his nails and looked to his three scowling comrades, then up to the gray skies as if searching for something. “Three blind mice,” he said. “A clan of hyenas−spineless, yapping dogs that feed on rotting flesh. A mob of emus−long-legged, pea-brained birds that have forgotten how to fly.”

  “Hmm.” The old man nodded. “Smart. Smart is very good. But smart and wise are two different things. Wise would be…go back to school to get smarter.”

  The muscle man bristled. “Don’t fucking preach to him, old man! School’s a waste of time. All we need is street smarts, ain’t that right, Mireles?”

  “Si si, señor,” the boy said with a tight grin.

  With spindly fingers, he stroked his beard as he eyed the crows. “School is very important. Knowledge does not only expand the brain. It opens the eyes. It is not wise to walk through life with eyes shut tight. You cannot see the dangers that lie ahead.”

  He gave another pensive hum as he stroked his beard. “A group of fish…is a school.”

  “Hey, Teacher, you know what sleeps with the fishes means?” the cowboy asked, and his two buddies sniggered.

  He continued to stroke his beard. “Also catch of fish, shoal of fish, haul of fish, and run of fish.”

  “How bout we gut you like a fish, old man,” Cowboy growled. “How bout we—”

  With a yelp, he began to dance a jig. Snatching his hat off, he used it to swat at his legs as he hopped away. Tugging off his boots, he then stripped off his jeans to brush frantically at his legs.

  His two friends howled and doubled over. The boy’s reaction was more contained, a mere soft chuckling.

  “That…i
s a colony,” the old man said. “As a young boy, I stepped onto an ant colony. I got many bites. It gave me a high fever. A group of stingrays is called a fever,” he added as an afterthought. “My father, he runs a stone’s edge down my arms and legs until I bruise. He says it will pull fever out. I say…it hurts so bad, I will myself better so no more stone.” He tapped his temple. “The mind holds very powerful medicine.”

  “Oh, such a sad story,” the thin man in the hooded jacket said. “Very, very sad. See, I cry for you.” Bending at the waist, he pulled down his sunglasses to show off two tattooed tears dripping from his right eye.

  “Hmm,” the old man mused. “Do you know what animal belongs to a group called cry?”

  With a smirk, Tearman shoved his sunglasses back into place and looked to Cowboy who was shaking out his jeans, slamming them against the ground over and again to rid them of any remaining ants. He was grumbling under his breath as he slipped them back on.